Good Morning
by spook-lights
Summary: The morning routine of a disheartened Grim Reaper


William's first instinct when he hears the metallic rattle of the alarm is to throw the damned thing into a wall, but even in his sleep fogged mind realizes he'd just have to buy a new one. May as well save the money. So with a sigh, one foot drops over the side of the bed, followed by its twin to slide into the worn slippers awaiting them. He sits a moment, partly to get his bearings, but mostly to gag down the discontent already settling in like a lingering bacterial infection of the psyche.

 _Swallow it. Choke on it if you have to but force it down._ He's up and stumbling in the inky black darkness of 4:30 ante meridian.

The first step is setting the coffee to percolate and in the interim, he counts the ticks of the kitchen clock for lack of anything better to do. He dare not shave until he's had that first murky cup of caffeine, lest he accidentally slash his own throat in his exhaustion. It isn't as though it would kill him. He's already dead, in a manner of speaking, but he hasn't the time for the mess. Coffee first. Blissful, beautiful, sanity fortifying coffee. It bitterly scalds his innards because there's no time to let it cool. What does he care? Burn his guts out. Maybe he'd get sick leave. No… that was unlikely; they'd make him work if he had to crawl to do it.

He shaves with a straight razor, still using the methods his quietly detached father had taught him, though his father is only a dim memory in some far off place in time that may as well have been a mere dream at this point. Lathering lightly, with the strokes angled _just so_. Careful and disconnected, just like his father; there is vague comfort in the familiarity. A soak, and aftershave to follow; he barely notices the sting.

The black uniform of his current life is uncomfortably slid into like a second skin that itches miserably. Not physically—it's a very nice suit, really—rather, somewhere in the back of his mind. Somewhere deep down, buried with the rest of his humanity and the ubiquitous mess of what used to be and what now is. It sticks into his pores like pinpricks and there is no soothing balm to ease the burn.

 _No escape, this is your life now. This is your costume, your pantomime._

His flat is bathed in blue by then, in that cold precursor to dawn. Every morning is the same, but he can't help but stand there taking stock of his life, if you could call it that. Cloaked in cobalt. Everything uniform and quiet and ephemeral. This is, grimly, his favorite part of the day because it is the most vivid conveyance of how he feels. He sees himself more in this haunted, desolate blue moment than in his own reflection, where eyes that aren't his own stare back at him. _Haunted_. Yes, he is haunted and a thing that haunts. Floating as lethargically as the dust particles caught in that first beam of sunlight. Used up and dead but nowhere to go, just suspended mid-air. As quickly as it came, the muted moment passes and the morning continues.

His back aches. He worked late into the night and sleep didn't come easy; more of those falling dreams. He hadn't been able to rest long enough for the tension to slacken and ease out of his muscles. Perhaps breakfast would help. And more coffee. Christ, just inject it straight into his veins.

He flips the egg in the pan; a feat he almost smiles about because usually this act is reserved for flapjacks, which he prefers but rarely makes. A small act to amuse himself before tucking into a bland breakfast at the start of yet another bland day. No. Not bland. Never _that_ , God for-fucking-bid. There's always chaos awaiting him. Always some loud-mouthed subordinate in his face or the grating lack of respect and consideration for all that he already does as they expect even more. _More_. More and more. God damn, there aren't enough hours in the day for all they ask of him! No, not ask. _Demand_. Because he doesn't have a choice does he?

He doesn't realize he's bitten the inside of his cheek instead of the egg until he can taste the coppery tang of blood. It's just washed down with more coffee, dull ache ignored.

His morning on autopilot complete, the man dons his jacket, gloves and a smart looking scarf, then sets out on his morning walk to the office. The thud thud _crunch_ , thud thud _crunch_ of his footfalls in the snow sounds like the beating of a cold dying heart trying to break out of a cage. It'll break itself to pieces if it has to.

At any rate, it's time to start the day.


End file.
